To My Sister: Do Not Read This Post. I'm Serious. Don't Read It. [Blood Play]

Social media always leaves me with the feeling other couples find new ways to spice up their sex life by reading magazine articles while looking at the accompanying pictures, usually the stick-figure or cartoon variety. (See: Cosmo magazine.) I also get the feeling it's never the men who are looking for new things to try in the bedroom, but it's somehow the woman's sole responsibility; as if to say, women need to push things up a notch if they want to keep their man's attention occupied, otherwise their men won't be looking to magazine articles for help, they'll be looking to other women. 

The sexist attitude inherent in our culture is a topic for another day. 

Husband and I don't work that way. Yes, sometimes we find inspiration through tumblr or Fetlife. But more often than not, we learn our way through real life conversations, interactions--

And often, by accident.

The other night, we were enjoying a rare evening when all the stars happened to align in our favor: the oldest two boys were out, the youngest was fast asleep, and we basically had the house to ourselves. Kinky sex was on the horizon, but how that would play out, exactly what we would do with our time? That was still an exciting mystery. 

Husband decided he wanted to watch the end of a movie he had started a couple days before. Assuming it would take at least half an hour for him to watch it, and having no interest in watching it with him, I decided to go downstairs and watch one of my own shows on the kids' TV. 

Now, the way our house is set up, the family room has the biggest TV in the house, but the kids also have a pretty nice TV downstairs, facing an old futon. This futon actually used to be our couch, back when we used to live in a small apartment. This was pre-kids. 

Husband and I had many fun times on that futon. 

About ten minutes into my own show, Husband came downstairs to find me.

"I thought you wanted to finish watching your movie," I said.

"I decided I could find better entertainment down here," he replied.

He sat down next to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me over his lap. 

The TV show was forgotten; play had begun.

Here's something you might not know about a futon: the angle of it, the deep slope of the seat, makes it perfect for the-woman-on-top position. She can really snuggle into the man's thighs, push in deep, and grab onto the back of the wooden frame for support. 

So when it was time, a while later, for the real fun to begin, it made sense that Husband wanted me to straddle his lap.

But here's something about me: when I'm in deep surrender mode, I can't deal with that kind of power. It feels wrong. My hips don't want to move; they want to be grabbed, squeezed, and restrained, not allowed to move about freely and do whatever they want. I can't come that way. 

So Husband quickly turned me over, pulled me on all fours, and took me from behind. It was a tight fit for me. I was all scrunched up there, my ass poking out, my face squashed against the futon. Every time Husband bucked into me, I had to hold my breath; my mouth and nose would press into the black velvet cotton futon cover, making it impossible for me to draw air.

It was awesome.

When we were done, I rested my face into the crook of my arm, giving myself a minute to recover before I tried to stand up. Husband, smiling, took a step around to have a look at me. But when he saw me, his smile faded. 

"There's blood on your arm," he said, pointing. "And on your face. What happened?"

I looked down at my arm, confirmed there was indeed blood, and felt my face. "I think you were pushing me into the futon so hard, I got a bloody nose," I said, touching my nostrils. 

"Wow," he said. Then--to my utter surprise--his smile widened. "Wow." 

He bent down and again, to my complete surprise, began to smear the blood from my nose all over my face. "Wow," he repeated, grinning.

I grinned back. "What, do I look cool?"

"Yeah," he said with glee. "Like a woman who just got fucked so hard, she got a nosebleed."

"I wanna see."

I quickly got up and ran to the bathroom. Red streaks lined my cheeks, chin, and forehead. 

I began to laugh. "Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god, I'm a mess."

"A hot mess."

"Should I wash it off right now?" I was asking a rhetorical question...or thought I was, until Husband took a serious minute to think about it.

"I guess so," he said. "The kids might come home early. But it's really cool." His eyes were fixated on my face as he admired his art. "We need to do this again."

"What, have sex on the futon?"

"Have sex hard enough to make your nose bleed," he said. As he turned away to put his clothes back on, he said once again, "Wow. Wow, that's hot."

Does this mean were dipping our toes into blood play now, or some kind of extra level impact play? I don't know yet. It's too early to tell. You know I hate making conjectures about these sort of things, when I have absolutely nothing to base myself upon.

And besides, not knowing is part of the fun. Open mind+no predictions=no limits to the fun.

But I love how we surprise ourselves with what we can still do, the new levels of play we can still find, even after all these years. 

It takes a certain level of self-assurance to do what we BDSMers do. We have to strip away all the restrictions and expectations society puts on us, just so we can be ourselves. Another couple might have been alarmed by the blood; the man would have been ashamed by his behavior, while the woman would have grown alarmed and furious. She might have questioned what kind of man he was, giving his wife a nosebleed (if only by accident), while he would have been put in a position of having to beg for forgiveness. 

But we laughed...and entertained the idea of doing it again. 

Now, have no doubt, if my nose had been really hurt, we would have dealt with the injury accordingly. Husband would have treated me in the appropriate manner, helping me to feel better. He also would have made a mental note to himself for next time.

But even then, this whole episode still would have been put into proper perspective. Husband did not mean to hurt me...this time. It would have been a case of rough sex gone wrong. 

In our case, it was rough sex gone right. Next time, when Husband has every intent to hurt me, it will be with my absolute consent.

This is what BDSM does: It takes away the guilt for having the kind of sex you really want. All there needs to be is the beauty of consent between two adults, the love of trust, and if you're lucky, the trust of love.